


Standing By

by asparkofgoodness



Series: Whumptober 2019 [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Bleeding Out, Crowley Saves The Day, Gunshot Wounds, Healing, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Then Aziraphale Saves Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 03:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21246485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparkofgoodness/pseuds/asparkofgoodness
Summary: “Listen, asshole, I don’t know what you just did, but if you don’t let me leave right now–"“Will I be sorry?”The sound of sirens interrupted them, getting louder with each second that passed.  Crowley’s serpentine grin grew.  The man made a frustrated, furious sound and reached inside his jacket.  At the same moment, Aziraphale called out, “everything alright over there?” and Crowley turned toward him.  As he opened his mouth to respond, he heard a click and knew what was pointed at him.  He whirled back around, lifting his hand to intervene, and a bang shattered the air.(This is a standalone story that is part of my Whumptober 2019 collection.)





	Standing By

“Hey! I know you heard her say ‘stop,’ because I certainly did from all the way back there.”

Snarling, Crowley strode down the dimly-lit alleyway toward two figures. The male figure had the female one pinned against the wall with his knee. Her head hung forward limply, but she had unmistakably shouted just a moment ago, causing Crowley come to an abrupt stop as he passed by the alley. Aziraphale had reacted a second later, rushing after him.

The man moved enough to make it look like he was merely supporting the woman. “She’s fine, just had a few too many. Walking her home.”

Crowley continued toward him. His assorted years of experiencing the world as a woman had taught him how to recognize the false, venomous charm of a predator. “Yeah, sure, right after you assault her.” When he reached them, he stopped, hands on his hips, head cocked to one side. “Get your hands off her. Now.”

“She’ll fall,” the man said with an unkind laugh. “We’re fine, right, sweetheart?” He glanced at the woman whose head lay on his shoulder.

With a quiet “excuse me,” Aziraphale stepped forward and brushed the hair out of the woman’s eyes. “Are you alright, dear? Do you know this man?” Crowley stared daggers into the man’s dark eyes while he waited for her to answer. She slowly shook her head, then tipped forward. Aziraphale caught her, maneuvering her out of the man’s grasp and slipping an arm around her waist to support her.

“Wha– This is none of your business,” the man protested, moving as if to take the woman back from Aziraphale, then stopping himself when Aziraphale flashed him a threatening look.

“Put something in my drink,” the woman mumbled.

Aziraphale began to walk her toward the street, quietly telling her “you’re safe now.”

Crowley, standing his ground, raised his eyebrows at the man. “Hmm, don’t think the same can be said about you.”

“Oh, yeah?” The man sized up Crowley’s lean frame, deciding he could easily take him if it came to that. “C’mon, us gents need to stick together. You know how women can be.” He took a step closer to Crowley, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “She was all for it, the whole night, practically begging for it, and then we get out here and she decides she’s not game anymore.”

“Oh, I see, she thought she could make a decision about her own body, and you think that’s unfair to you, right? After all the effort you went through to drug her?” Crowley watched with pleasure as the man processed his sarcasm, anger taking over his dark features. “Well don’t worry, we’ll just give the authorities a quick call and they can sort out what’s fair.”

“No, I can’t–" The man’s eyes darted over to Aziraphale, who had reached the street and was helping the woman sit down on the curb. He hadn’t seen either of them call the police, but he couldn’t chance it, not with his record. With a nervous smile, he held his hands up. “I’ll just be on my way, and you can see she gets home safe, no harm done.” He stepped back, knowing the bar’s side door waited only a few feet away.

“Oh, no, please, stick around.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and the man’s feet froze in place as if glued to the pavement.

“What the hell?” He struggled against the strange force holding him down for a moment as Crowley grinned at him. Then, he reached out, grabbed fistfuls of Crowley’s jacket and pulled him forward. “Listen, asshole, I don’t know what you just did, but if you don’t let me leave right now–"

“Will I be sorry?”

The sound of sirens interrupted them, getting louder with each second that passed. Crowley’s serpentine grin grew. The man made a frustrated, furious sound and reached inside his jacket. At the same moment, Aziraphale called out, “everything alright over there?” and Crowley turned toward him. As he opened his mouth to respond, he heard a click and knew what was pointed at him. He whirled back around, lifting his hand to intervene, and a bang shattered the air.

“Oh shit!” the man yelled in surprise. “Shit, I– No, no, I didn’t mean to–" He found his feet could move again and he ran, dropping the gun he hadn’t meant to fire, pushing open the bar’s door and fleeing through the crowds and into the night.

The force of impact had thrown Crowley back; he spun and landed on his side on the pavement. Ears ringing, he shook his head, blinking slowly. He saw the gun, abandoned on the ground next to him. He heard Aziraphale shout his name, sounding miles away. He saw the man run for the door and he pushed himself up, attempting to chase after him, and then the pain hit, his right shoulder erupting in a sharp, burning heat. “Ugh,” he groaned. He tried to turn to look toward the street, but the twisting motion magnified the pain until his breath caught. He clutched his shoulder with his left hand. “Aziraphale,” he forced out, “bit of a problem over–"

Aziraphale, who had started running at the sound of the gunshot, dropped to his knees next to him, face clouded with worry. “Oh, Crowley,” he sighed shakily, guiding him to lie down.

With a grimace, Crowley removed his hand from his shoulder and grew pale. “Lot of blood,” he muttered. Aziraphale looked and saw that he was right: silver blood was pouring from the wound, pooling under him in a rapidly-growing circle. Already, the pain was fading away to a chilling numbness that contrasted strangely with the warmth of his blood.

“Look away and try your best to relax. I can heal this in–" Sirens cut off Aziraphale’s voice. Flashing lights illuminated the alleyway, reflecting off the blood covering Crowley’s shoulder, Aziraphale’s hands, and the pavement. Aziraphale glanced over to see the woman waving at a police car that came to a stop in front of her.

Crowley tried to sit up to look but found himself pinned down by the weight of his numb, uncooperative limbs. “Can’t let them see. Me, like this. You, healing.”

“I do hate to wait any longer, but, well, we also can’t have them trying to intervene, I suppose…”

Two officers jumped from the car. One approached the woman, crouching down in front of her; the other headed down the alley toward them.

Aziraphale felt Crowley nudge his leg with a hand, and he looked down to see Crowley’s yellow eyes, unfocused and wide, staring above his head. “Angel,” Crowley said, fixated on the lights dancing in Aziraphale’s white curls. “You’ve got a halo.”

The near-hallucination illuminated the severity of his condition to Aziraphale. He had to act now. He closed his eyes, took Crowley’s hand in his, and a second later, they were home. The hard, cold pavement underneath them became the soft comfort of their bed. The officer, who thought he had been heading toward two men, one of whom looked seriously injured, found that he had, instead, been walking down an empty alleyway toward an abandoned gun.

Aziraphale pushed up his sleeves. “Okay, I’m going to– Crowley?” A chilling shock of fear hit him as he watched Crowley’s eyes flutter closed, his head falling to one side. “Crowley!” He cradled Crowley’s head in his hand, smearing silver over his cheek and in his hair. “Crowley, wake up.” He tapped his cheek. With a groggy moan, Crowley opened his eyes again. “Oh, thank Heaven. Crowley, stay here, with me. Hang on.” He moved his hands to the wound on Crowley’s shoulder. His jacket, soaked with blood, made a sickening noise as Aziraphale applied pressure to the area.

For a moment, he froze, staring at the blood that flowed out underneath his hands, the silver stain on the bedsheets that bloomed around Crowley’s shoulder. How much blood did the human body hold? Aziraphale had seen humans bleed out on battlefields and in trenches. Had they lost much more than Crowley had? And if Crowley was discorporated, given that Hell had kept its silent distance since the trial, would he be able to return?

_Stop_, he thought, forcing his thoughts to quiet and summoning healing energy from within him. All that lay in Aziraphale’s field of vision were his hands, coated in sticky argent blood, bathed in faint golden light. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. The air around him stilled. His breath quickened. The questions came flooding back, taking advantage of the silence to shatter his concentration. Was he too slow? Too cautious, wasting valuable time sending them back here before starting? If he was too late, would Crowley end up trapped in Hell, where Aziraphale could never see him again? Or, worse, would they take advantage of his weakness and attempt another execution? Had they finally been beaten, and by a human, a gun? The holy water would work, this time. Crowley would be destroyed.

“Angel.” One gorgeous word, whispered weakly but clearly not imagined, pulled Aziraphale back to the present. His eyes shot to Crowley’s face and saw Crowley looking back at him, much more alert than he had been minutes ago. _Thank you,_ he thought. _Thank you_, and in that moment, it didn’t matter who he meant to thank or if they heard him. “It’s working,” Crowley said. “I’m fine. Deep breaths.”

With a short, self-conscious laugh, Aziraphale took his advice, slowing the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He peeked under his hands. “Almost there, I think. How do you feel?”

“Like I was hit by a very large, very fast car.”

“Now you know–" Aziraphale bit back the sentiment about how Anathema and the presumably large number of other victims of Crowley’s reckless driving must have felt, deeming it unkind to pick on him in his weakened state. “You had me very worried there. You need to be more careful.”

“Did you know he had a gun?”

“Well, no, but–"

“Exactly. So, same to you. He could’ve just as easily taken you out.”

Aziraphale gave a slight roll of his eyes and let the remark go. “I do hope the authorities were kind to Ms. Sullivan. The poor girl could barely walk, after what he gave her.”

Crowley scowled at the memory of the man’s disturbing confidence. “I’ll make an appearance at the station tomorrow, make sure they took her seriously. Maybe they’ll get him on murder, too. Basically killed me.”

“It’s not murder without a corpse, you know.” Aziraphale checked under his hands, pulling aside fabric to find smooth skin where the entry wound had been. “There, all better.” He smiled and sat back on his heels.

“Eh, stupid rule.” Crowley sat up gingerly, rolling his shoulders before turning toward Aziraphale. “Nice work,” he said, showing his gratitude with a gentle kiss.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, taking in the nearness of Crowley, grounding himself in the sound of his breath and the warmth of his skin. He was here, alive. Safe. He forgot about the blood drying on his hands; the questions and fears faded away.

“I’m beat,” Crowley pulled back to say. “And you need rest, too.” Aziraphale miracled them clean and into their usual sleep attire and lay back, watching as Crowley curled an arm around his stomach, a leg around his leg, settling in for the night.

He kissed the top of his head. “Goodnight, my dear.” Aziraphale, emotionally spent and physically weakened from the efforts of healing, decided to sleep, too. In the moment before his consciousness surrendered to slumber, he felt Crowley’s fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt and smiled, grateful for the hard-won gift of another tomorrow waiting on the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, let me know with a kudos and/or comment, and follow me on Tumblr as [thetunewillcome](https://thetunewillcome.tumblr.com/) for more _Good Omens_ stories.
> 
> The title came from listening to "Standing By" by Pentatonix on repeat while writing and then realizing that phrase fits this piece well.
> 
> This is for my last batch of Whumptober 2019 prompts: pinned down, laced drink, hallucination, bleeding out, beaten, numb.
> 
> I'm officially a Whumptober 2019 completionist now! A special "thank you!" to those who have been following my progress and fueling me with comments. I wouldn't have made it without your encouragement!


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